


Who Cares if We're Trashed

by khasael



Series: Hale and Hearty [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Honeymoon, M/M, Reveal, Sick Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows he's going to have to tell his friends and family he's gotten married. He's not an idiot.</p><p>... In hindsight, maybe he actually <i>is</i> kind of an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Cares if We're Trashed

Stiles wakes up slowly, sort of bobbing up and down on the surface of consciousness and occasionally dipping back under. What he registers first is that he's really warm, almost uncomfortably so, but that's helped a bit by kicking off some of the covers. He next registers that his head aches and his mouth feels gross, and there's the fuzzy memory of a couple of glasses of champagne, just before sleep. And then he notices the steady, slow breathing of someone next to him, before he opens his eyes and squints against the sunlight coming in through the crack in the curtains.

Derek. With some definite bed head going on.

Stiles grins to himself, rolls over, throws his arm around Derek, and dozes off again, his face pressed against Derek's tattoo.

When he wakes up the next time, it's to find himself on his back, and Derek's left arm draped over his chest. Derek's face is smushed against Stiles's ribs, and he's low enough in the bed that his feet stick off the end of the mattress by a good foot or so. It's actually pretty cute.

He runs his fingers over the back of Derek's hand, stopping to play with the wedding band that's still on Derek's finger, and he can't help but smile when Derek snuggles closer into him before muttering a thickly-slurred "is it morning already?" into Stiles's side.

"Judging by the bright light coming through the gap in the curtains, I'm gonna go with yes on that one."

Derek mumbles something unintelligible into Stiles's skin and Stiles grins and runs his fingers through Derek's hair, which at least gets him a much more content-sounding sigh in response.

"You are so not a morning person, are you?" 

Derek lifts his head and looks blearily at Stiles, who makes a valiant attempt at containing his laughter. "Hey," he says, his voice raspy. "We were up for damn near forty-eight hours. And may I remind you of all the times I've had to half-carry you and a cup of coffee to your Jeep in the morning so you can get home before your dad got back from the night shift and worried, because you'd fallen asleep on my couch?"

"Point taken."

"Good." Derek yawns hugely, rolls over, and sits up on the edge of the bed. Looking at his silhouette against the bright light makes Stiles's eyes hurt, but it's still a nice image. Derek mumbles something about being back in a minute, then trudges towards the bathroom, rolling his neck and shoulders loose as he goes. Stiles waits a minute, sits up with the intent of finding clothes to wear, and immediately regrets the decision. He's barely upright when his headache flares to life, the dull ache now a rhythmic thudding that makes his whole head feel heavy. He looks over at the empty bottle of champagne on the room service cart and glares at it. "Traitor," he mutters, rubbing at his temples while he waits for Derek to come back. "You're not even hard liquor. I should not have to have a hangover, the day after my wedding."

"You okay?"

Stiles lifts his head from his hands to find Derek standing over him, looking concerned and uncertain. It takes Stiles a minute to realize his body language probably screams regret, and he makes an effort to sit up and look like he wasn't thinking about reconsidering that annulment, because he _definitely_ does not want one. "Just a little hung over."

Derek's face clears considerably at that, not only at the words, but also probably because he was able to tell it wasn't a lie, and it's not like Stiles is questioning his recent choices—other than the one to have two not-exactly-small glasses of champagne on top of a fair amount of chocolate cake. "Do you need to eat something?"

The thought of food doesn't make Stiles feel queasy, which is a relief. "Maybe? It's mostly just my head. Do I have time for a shower before we have to be out of here?" Just the thought of a really hot shower makes him feel just a teeny bit better—letting the water run over his head and shoulders and back until everything loosens up and gets his blood moving around. Maybe it's only partially a hangover, actually, and partially just being sore and worn out from the pretty vigorous sex last night. Given the tangled and wrinkled state of the sheets right now, it was just as good as Stiles remembers. They're going to have to tip room service pretty well. 

"Yeah, you've got time."

"Awesome." Stiles knows his headache is bad when he doesn't immediately ask Derek to join him for a possible repeat performance of last night's couple's shower (which, for the record, is something they need to be doing regularly). He does, however, still squeeze Derek's ass on his way past him, because he's not _dead_ , okay?

He emerges from the bathroom almost thirty minutes later (with a solid three minutes spent grinning like an idiot at the light markings Derek left on his skin), feeling a little better. His head still hurts, but it's a steady ache that he can almost ignore. Derek's already dressed (which is a shame) and, since he's laid Stiles's clothes on the bathroom counter sometime during Stiles's shower, Stiles is only missing socks and shoes. Next to the door to the room are some bags—one with their clothes from last night, and one, judging by the way the plastic is knotted securely, with the clothes they'd worn on the drive in. Those might need a couple of cycles through the washer, once they get back to Beacon Hills. Other than that, it looks like they're pretty much ready to go. Derek has each of their bags with their assorted souvenirs near the clothes bags, and it's not like they'd checked in with anything, as far as belongings went. Definitely travelling light.

"Feeling any better?" Derek asks from the sofa in the sunken living room. He's playing with the remote and, when Stiles gets closer, he can see the screen for an automated check-out option. A glance at the clock shows they've got twenty minutes until they're supposed to be out of here.

Stiles sinks down onto the sofa and against Derek, closing his eyes. Derek's warm and pleasantly solid, and he smells good in a way that has nothing to do with body wash or cologne. None of the pack—Stiles included—wears much in the way of fragrance. Erica had once growled something about castrating the next guy who smelled like Axe body spray, and Stiles has taken that threat to heart and been mindful of werewolf noses ever since. "Much." The shower had helped, but just being able to lean like this against Derek is even better. 

Derek doesn't even make Stiles move right away, which earns him even more Awesome Points. He just fiddles with the remote some more, then leans back and tugs Stiles so that he ends up wrapped up in Derek's arms as they both sprawl on the couch. They stay like that until Derek whispers "eleven" into his ear, and Stiles is forced to acknowledge that they actually have to get up and leave.

It's not until they're sitting in a diner far off the Strip and staring at laminated menus that Stiles even thinks about the real-life implications of the last twenty-four hours. One second, he's debating different flavors of French toast, and the next, he realizes he's going to have to find a way to inform his dad that he's married. His heartbeat must kick up as noticeably as it feels, because Derek's eyes flick up from the menu to Stiles's face. "Stiles?"

"I'm fine," Stiles says, trying to make himself believe it. "I just realized that I'm not really sure how you're supposed to let family and friends know you've... eloped, I guess."

"It'll be fine," Derek says, which is way more optimistic than he ever acts about anything. Stiles must give him a skeptical look or something without even meaning to, because Derek reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. "I'll tell the pack, if you want." He pauses, then looks nervous in his own right. "Your dad, though..."

"Yeah, that one's on me, obviously." He smiles a bit, then, because Derek didn't just offer up the annulment before they leave town, and Stiles is grateful for that. Because it maybe means Derek really does want this as much as Stiles has found _he_ does. Also, he looks kind of cute, all terrified of Stiles's dad, who may be a little intimidating now and then, but isn't _that_ bad.

Then again, Stiles isn't the one who's going to have to tell a man who owns a bunch of guns that he's run off and married his recently-legal only child without so much as dating him first. 

Stiles squeezes Derek's hand back. Yeah, it'll probably be more stressful for him, in the long run. Poor guy.

He has to give Derek credit—he waits until after they both have food in front of them, something to play with and stuff their mouths full of as a means of procrastination, before gently prodding at some of the questions they probably should have already covered. They hadn't needed to in the beginning, because it was little more than a game, but now that they've made the decision to stick it out, there are some things that need to be addressed.

"Do you have on-campus housing arranged?" Derek asks, segueing into it fairly smoothly from their discussion of whether or not Stiles wants to declare a minor so early in college, or see how things go before making that kind of call. It's a general question, something high school grads get asked a lot, probably, but Stiles catches the meaning behind it. He sips at his coffee (which is still scalding hot, even with milk and sugar in it) and tries to figure out how to answer.

"Not yet?" He and Scott had always planned to room together in college, if it was an option. But even though Stiles sent his confirmation two months ago, before graduation, Scott still appears to be trying to figure his own shit out. He has an offer for the same school Stiles is attending, but also for some veterinary programs in Pomona and San Diego, as well as closer to home, at UC Davis. It looks more and more like he and Scott _won't_ be going to college together after all, and if that's the case, he sort of wishes Scott would just man up and tell him, because the avoidance thing isn't exactly becoming, what with the supposed True Alpha status and all. "I mean, I know they want freshmen to live on campus, if at all possible, but you can petition to live off campus, if you have family or something in the area, and they have family housing options you can apply for...?" What he doesn't want to say is that it's only just sort of occurred to him that he might only get a couple of months of being able to see Derek all the time before he just sort of abandons him for school, only really able to see him on occasional long weekends and during breaks.

"And you're set on LA?" Derek asks, voice sounding very carefully neutral while he picks at his bacon.

"Yeah." Because he is.

They're both quiet for a minute before Derek clears his throat. "I don't think I'd mind living down there. For a few years, anyway?" 

The last part sounds like a question, but Stiles feels relief sort of flood through him, because he knows what it actually is, is an offer. "You'd move there for me?"

Derek raises his eyebrows, and Stiles sees a little of that look he's so used to, the one that says Derek thinks he's being a dumbass, only it's tempered with amusement (which is a thing that's been increasing in the last year or so) and also what can only be described as fondness. "We're married."

Stiles can't even remotely stop the goofy grin that spreads across his face. "We are, aren't we?" When Derek rolls his eyes and lifts up his left hand as if to display his ring as proof in a way that clearly says "duh" without words, Stiles hooks a shoe behind his calf under the table. "Hey, I gave you an out," Stiles says, snorting as he strokes Derek's leg a little with his foot.

Derek smirks at him. "Yeah, I know." And then he goes back to eating bacon, and Stiles figures that's that settled. The somewhat more complicated question of living arrangements between now and college gets tentatively settled as they share a slice of pie, with it really coming down to how Stiles's dad takes the news. He's still not sure how he feels about moving out of his dad's place, even though he's going to be doing it in a couple of months, anyway, but Derek makes it clear that his place is an option, if Stiles wants to live there. By the time they pay the check, Stiles feels pretty okay about the whole thing, so long as he doesn't think too hard about how his dad might react to the news. 

They've only been on the road for half an hour before Stiles's headache creeps back up on him. He blames the sun, which is really bright out here—which shouldn't be surprising, since it's a desert and all, and it's only around one o'clock—and vows to pick up a cheap pair of sunglasses once they make their next stop for gas. They get as far as Barstow before Derek's shooting him looks from the passenger's seat, and when Derek asks him if he's okay, Stiles admits to the renewed headache before heading inside to pick up a couple of things (including a Mountain Dew, reasoning that the caffeine might be helpful). When he comes back out, Derek's standing by the driver's side door, his eyebrows raised as Stiles slips a ten-dollar pair of sunglasses onto his face. "Do you want me to drive for a while?"

Stiles knows they're married and all now, but the Jeep is his baby, and he can't help but feel a little distressed over the thought of anyone else driving it. He doesn't even like to let Scott behind the wheel, for any reason that isn't an immediate life-or-death need. Even then, it's a struggle. "Nah. I've got it." Derek looks at him a little pointedly, but ultimately slips into the passenger's seat. Stiles shoots him a grin and tries to ignore the pounding of his head.

It's after five by the time they reach Bakersfield, stopping so they can stretch and eat without having to juggle the food in the car (Derek's idea). Stiles is having a harder and harder time convincing himself he's fine, he's good to keep driving the rest of the way back to Beacon Hills, and he's starting to doubt this is a hangover. He feels a little shaky when he climbs out of the Jeep, but resolves not to say anything. It's not _that_ bad.

"Stiles? Come here for a second?"

Stiles shoots a look at the front door of the diner, where it's probably air-conditioned and they have ice water, which sounds like the best thing in the world right now, but crosses around the Jeep to where Derek's leaning against his door. "Yeah?"

Derek pulls lightly at Stiles's waistband, tugging him close, and brushes their lips together. Stiles feels his knees go a little weak, and tells himself it's the kiss. To be fair, it probably _is_ partially the kiss, because the concept of being able to kiss Derek makes him more than a little giddy. He leans his forehead against Derek's collarbone, relishing the dark for a moment. When Derek trails his hand up Stiles's back, up his neck, and runs his fingers through his hair, Stiles sighs happily. Derek's touch feels good, and it's comforting having someone to lean against, in general, but also especially right now. 

When Derek's hand stays there, cupping Stiles's neck and base of his skull, Stiles doesn't even process what's going on for a few seconds. But then the pounding in his head just evaporates, and he can't help but moan softly in relief. "Better?" Derek murmurs in his ear, nuzzling at Stiles's jawbone, and Stiles just wants to wrap his arms around Derek's neck and hang on, his body otherwise limp.

"Uh-huh. But you didn't have to do that." Not that he's complaining.

Derek makes a small huffing sound. "Nope. I didn't."

The meal itself is unremarkable, the conversation easy as it often is these days, and the best part about the whole thing is the number of times Stiles looks up from his food to find Derek with this small, almost shy smile on his face, and the way he blushes now and then when he realizes Stiles has caught him at it. It's fucking _adorable_. Also, it's kind of reassuring, because Stiles has the feeling he's giving Derek his own share of smiles and other assorted goofy expressions.

The good feeling lasts maybe thirty minutes after they get back on the road. By that time, Derek's werewolfy painkiller powers have definitely worn off. The headache is back, and has brought its friends 'sore throat' and 'body ache' along for the ride. When Stiles pulls into a gas station in Fresno, he doesn't even get a chance to say anything about feeling like crap. Derek waits until Stiles kills the engine, then sighs.

"Passenger's seat. I'm driving."

Stiles flails a little and makes a distressed sound of protest, because _his baby_ , but for all his stubbornness, he knows Derek's right. He climbs into the other seat and curls up a little while Derek pumps the gas. Yeah, he definitely feels like shit, and this is _not_ a hangover. Hangovers don't include the sniffles that have just sort of sneakily arrived. 

"You should try to sleep," Derek tells him as he starts up the Jeep. "I've got the drive from here. It's another four or five hours till we get home, anyway."

"But that's not fair to you!" Stiles says, scoffing at him, then really wishes he'd done something other than scoff, because that doesn't help his throat _at all_. "You shouldn't have to be the only person awake on a long trip. What if you get tired?" He and his dad have this agreement about that sort of thing, about being awake at the same time for night driving, if possible, unless they've agreed otherwise. It's a safety thing.

"I won't." When Stiles glares, Derek raises his eyebrows and gives him an amused little expression. "Look. I swear, if I somehow find myself that tired, I'll pull over. Worst case scenario, we hit a rest stop or a motel for a little bit." He reaches out and gives Stiles's hand a light squeeze. "Okay?"

It's enough to appease him for now. "Okay."

He tries to sleep, he really does. And on some level, he's successful. His head hurts, his body hurts, and the Jeep isn't the most comfortable place for a nap. But the sound of the road flying by underneath them and the engine doing its thing is white noise enough that Stiles is able to drift in and out. He must actually sleep for at least a little while, because he wakes at some point, shivering, only to find he's underneath the blanket that's usually tucked into the back of the Jeep. "Derek?"

"Only another hour or so," Derek tells him in the dark. "Most of the way there already." He glances over, his face half-hidden in shadow. "You were shivering, so I stopped and got the blanket for you." His hand finds its way to Stiles's leg, resting there for just a moment. "You're hot."

"Actually, I'm fucking freezing," Stiles slurs, not feeling entirely awake. "Which means it's a fever, yay." It's not like it's a surprise, but there's always that sort of dismayed feeling when he realizes he can't deny he's gone and caught something, like a cold or the flu, and it's not just allergies or post-lacrosse soreness.

"At least you don't smell like infection."

Stiles can't even think of how to reply to that for a minute. "You can smell that sort of thing?"

Derek shrugs a little. "Most of the time. Infected wounds, especially, but also things like lung infections and stuff. Smells stronger, the worse it is. But you just smell like... like regular human illness. Flu, maybe? I don't know. I can't diagnose by scent."

"That'd be really fucking handy, if you could," Stiles murmurs, wrapping the blanket tighter around him. "Think about it. You could be a doctor, diagnosing people without needing half of those stupid tests. And you can't get sick, so you'd be great in quarantine wings and infectious disease wards. There might be a market for this, teaching werewolves how to be doctors, using their natural abilities to excel. We should talk to Melissa and Deaton about this sometime. Maybe start a business."

Derek just chuckles and gives his knee a squeeze. "Go back to sleep, Stiles."

It's just after midnight when Stiles jolts awake again, the familiar twists and turns of the streets in his neighborhood registering in his subconscious the way they have ever since he was little. He undoes his seatbelt, shoving at the blanket which is now _too_ warm, and nearly falls on his face trying to get out of the Jeep. He probably _would_ have spilled directly onto the driveway, if Derek hadn't magically been there to catch him. It's late, he's tired and groggy, he hurts, and he's kind of dizzy, truth be told. And no matter what Stiles tells his legs, in regards to the totally manageable distance between driveway and bed, they completely refuse to listen to him. He feels kind of like a marionette with snipped strings.

"Easy," Derek murmurs into his ear, and Stiles can't really argue this one. "I've got you." And just like that, he's hauled up in Derek's arms like he weighs fucking _nothing_ , one of Derek's arms under his knees and the other around his back as he slips Stiles's arm around his neck. 

He pauses at the front door, somehow managing to juggle the house key _and_ Stiles without dropping either, and Stiles has a moment of clarity, realizing how this looks, and he barks a hoarse laugh. "Oh my god, dude. Does this make me the bride? Since you're carrying me over the threshold?

"Do you want to be the bride?" Derek huffs as he makes for the stairs, and Stiles can't really see him in the dark, but he's pretty sure he's rolling his eyes. 

"I dunno. Maybe. Do I get to wear something pretty? Because I don't have anything lacy or silky, but I do—ooh, oh my God, I have missed my bed." It's amazing how smoothly Derek's set him down, and then come to stand in front of him, already tugging at Stiles's shirt, trying to remove it. "Also, I know I told you that you can tear off my clothes sometime, but I don't think that's tonight, because I'd really rather be able to do more than fumble around, and—"

"Shush," Derek says, stopping him with a finger to Stiles's lips. Stiles tries to bite it, but it's a weak attempt. "Your clothes are sweaty. Pajamas. Then sleep."

"Pajamas require way too much energy, Derek," Stiles informs him. He's ready to argue this one, even if his head does feel thick and stupid. " _Way_ too much energy."

"Fine. Then out of what you're wearing, at least, and into bed." 

Stiles does what he's told, thankful for his mattress and his pillows and even his blankets, even if he doesn't think he'll be using them tonight, and is almost comfortably settled when Derek stands up from the side of the bed and makes for the door of the room. It takes Stiles a second to put together that Derek is walking out the door, is _leaving_ , and he can't help it if he makes a truly upset, hurt sound once he's all alone in his room. Yeah, he might need sleep, but come on, that's—

"I didn't leave, dumbass," Derek's voice says, floating up the stairs. "Don't whimper like that."

"I didn't whimper," Stiles tells his pillow, feeling both petulant and relieved. It's not like he _needs_ a babysitter or anything, but the thought of Derek just walking out after demanding he sleep was a little harsh. "It was a manly grunt of irritation."

"It was a whimper," Derek insists, walking back into the room. He sets a glass of ice water—with a straw—on the nightstand, then circles around so he can climb onto the other side of the bed, shedding clothes as he goes, so he's only wearing underwear by the time he slips onto the mattress. "This okay?" His face is uncertain and he looks sort of soft and vulnerable.

Stiles looks at Derek, still kneeling on the bed, then at the water glass, then back at Derek, and tries not to feel like he's been punched in the chest. He's never really had anyone to take care of him while he was sick besides his mom and his dad and, in all reality, it's been years since the last of those occasions. Yeah, his dad's brought him soup and cold medicine, or crackers and Sprite, and let him stay curled up on the couch with a stack of movies and all his blankets, but this... this feels different, and not just because it's the first time he's been this sick since he was fifteen. "Yeah," he says, his voice breaking. "Yeah, it's okay." He reaches out for Derek, who shuffles towards him in the dark, and gets as comfortable as he can. He still feels hot, and Derek's chest against his back is anything but cool, but it's still incredibly comforting, even if kind of sticky. "Stay?"

Derek's mouth presses against Stiles's shoulder, and Stiles can both hear and feel his hummed response. They lie like that for a while before Derek's arms wrap around Stiles's chest. Stiles is only just aware of the ache in his muscles and joints fading, the sore throat and headache draining away a moment later, and Derek's voice soft in his ear, as he drifts off to sleep: "I'll stay."

\--------****---------

"I'm dying. I know it," Stiles croaks late the next morning, his eyes squinted against the light. "I can't possibly feel this bad and still live."

Derek snorts a small, exasperated laugh into the bed. Stiles can feel the mattress dip as Derek gets up onto his hands and knees. There's a brush of lips against his forehead, and then Derek speaks. "You're not dying."

"Oh no? Then what am I?"

"Testing the strength of my commitment to 'in sickness and in health'?"

Even Stiles laughs, though it tapers off into a wheezing sort of cough. "Fair enough." He cracks an eye open to find Derek pulling his clothes on. When he snakes a pair of socks from Stiles's drawer and puts those on, Stiles lifts his head, which feels like a mistake as soon as he does it. "Where do you think you're going?"

Derek looks at him, eyebrows up. "Drug store. Because your medicine cabinet has very little in the way of actual medicine. At least, nothing that looks like that it'd do you any good." Stiles starts to protest, but Derek overrules him pretty easily. It doesn't help that Stiles's best weapon right now is his utterly pathetic state. "I'll be back soon," Derek tells him. Even the way he rolls his eyes looks affectionate, and Stiles would raise his arms in victory over that accomplishment, if he wasn't half-worried he'd pass out or fall over if he tried. "Rest, would you?"

"Rest is for the weak," Stiles grumbles, wriggling his way deeper into his bed. He doesn't feel freezing or roasting just this moment, which is definitely an improvement, but he does still feel pretty shitty. 

"Exactly," Derek says dryly. "And I seem to recall having to carry you up here last night."

"Technicalities." Stiles lets out another sigh that's half cough. "Fine. You go. I'll rest. Just hurry back. We're still newlyweds, and you shouldn't be ditching me this soon."

Stiles doesn't know how long Derek's gone before something drags him back to fully conscious. What he does know is that he'd been having a really weird dream, even if none of the details stick with him the moment he's awake. And he also knows that whatever woke him isn't something that wants to play nice with his headache right now. It takes him a few moments, however, to work out that the stimulus hasn't gone away. Stiles hears a heavy pounding, and it takes him much longer than it should to realize it's not just in his head—someone is downstairs, at the front door.

He groans and buries back under his covers.

The pounding only gets louder. 

After a minute or so, Stiles can't take it any longer. He fumbles around in his drawers for a pair of pajama pants and an old T-shirt, manages to get them on, and drags himself out of his room. He's at the top of the stairs when he makes out a voice, sounding like someone's got their face pressed to the edge of the door frame. With some focus, Stiles can make out words.

"Dude. Stiles. Seriously. I _know_ you're in there. Your Jeep is in the driveway, and it hasn't been for the last couple of days. You didn't answer your phone or respond to texts at all yesterday. And your texts the other night were really vague. I'm starting to worry, okay? And so is my mom. She's about this close to calling your dad, I'm not even joking. If you think ignoring me is going to work, it's not. Just, like, let us know you're alive. I have nowhere else to be today. I can sit out here all day. Or until I get bored enough to come pick the lock on your window and just climb in."

Stiles grips the railing. He supposes he can't be _entirely_ surprised Scott's checking up on him. He knows his dad sort of unofficially sets Melissa as the go-to to make sure Stiles hasn't done something stupid and fallen down the stairs and broken his neck, or choked on a giant order of curly fries, or any number of other dumb moves that could result in injury or death, whenever he's out of town or on assignments that don't allow him to come home for more than a day or two at a time. But really, he doesn't have the energy to deal with people right now. If he just sits really still, maybe Scott will go away for a little while, even if he said—

"Stiles. I know you're not dead. I can hear your heartbeat. And yeah, I can pick it out from others most of the time. It's not just Allison I can do that with, jerk."

Well. So much for that plan.

"All right, all right," Stiles mutters, knowing Scott will be able to hear him, if he's able to pick up even his damned heartbeat from out on the porch. "I'm coming, jeez. Just give me a second. Don't get your fur all in a knot." Ha, _knot_. Although, ew. Stiles should not be thinking of Scott's dick. In any circumstances.

"It's about damned time," Scott grunts when Stiles finally makes it to the door and unlocks the deadbolt and lock on the doorknob. "I was starting to—holy shit, dude, you look like crap."

"Thanks," Stiles says, trying to convey the depth of his gratefulness at Scott interrupting his nap. "Not all of us can be so attractive, due to werewolf traits."

"No, I mean, wow, you're really sick, huh?"

Stiles has to admit, for as annoying as he finds this little intrusion, Scott's face is almost painfully earnest and concerned. "It's just the flu. I'll be fine in a couple of days." 

Scott's face doesn't exactly scream "reassured". He moves closer to Stiles, sniffing, and Stiles makes a face. "Well, you don't smell like you're dying." He wrinkles his nose. "But you _do_ smell like Derek."

"We were hanging out," Stiles says, flapping his hand. He doesn't need to go into the details right now. Scott's eyebrows go up in a way that makes Stiles wonder if it's a werewolf trait or something. "Seriously. Everything's cool. See? I'm in one piece. No freak accidents. I haven't fallen into the oven while heating a frozen pizza, or driven off the road while talking to someone I'm driving with." He shakes his head and starts to walk away, signifying how perfectly ordinary everything is, but then he's suddenly more level with Scott's navel than his face, and everything's kind of grey and underwater-sounding.

"Ass. Couch," Scott demands, his hand firmly on Stiles's elbow. "Doctor's offices are closed. I'm calling my mom. If she says you're not that bad off, I'll believe it. But if she thinks you need to go to the hospital, I am not above dragging your stubborn ass there myself."

"Freaking alphas," Stiles mutters, dropping onto the couch when Scott more or less shoves him there. "Freaking werewolves, in general." It's not like _he_ hasn't had to bully Scott or the rest of the pack into taking care of themselves after a full moon, or once they've finally dispatched whichever creature or the week has shown up. But this is ridiculous. Yeah, fine, he's human. And Scott's his best friend, and an alpha. And Derek's his... his husband, and a former alpha. So maybe it's not entirely unwarranted, even if it is a little oppressive.

Also, what Stiles really wants right now is ice cream and for Derek to let him snuggle up on him until he feels less like death. Scott's good for a hug or the occasional puppy pile, but... yeah. Not the same. Not even close. It doesn't even matter that Stiles has recently discovered it. It's still true.

Melissa shows up less than ten minutes later, and the critical, professional nurse-like look she shoots him makes Stiles sort of give up. He submits to letting her take his pulse, and feel his forehead, and look down his throat, and poke and prod and even feel the glands along his neck and jaw, and he answers basic questions about his symptoms. 

"No hospital or urgent care," she finally proclaims, and Stiles shoots Scott a look. "But you need fluids. And decent food. And _rest_."

"I _was_ resting," he can't help adding, voice petulant. He flops back onto the couch and just wants everyone to leave him alone. Except Derek, who has been gone way too long for Stiles's liking. "Until Scott woke me up."

"Mmhm." Stiles can't even tell if she's making that eye-rolling whatever-tone at him or at Scott. "Well, I say we get you set up with some juice, some soup, maybe some Nyquil or Robitussin. Take it easy, and we'll have you hale and hearty in no time."

Stiles huffs. "Yeah, got the first half of that covered already," he mutters, flapping his left hand their direction, holding his ring finger out.

There's virtual silence, broken only by a strangled-sounding noise like Scott's tried to eat an entire turkey leg at once again without remembering he can't breathe roasted meat, and the sound of rustling plastic and a soft thud just a second later. Stiles looks up to see Melissa looking at him wide-eyed, Scott an interesting shade of... purple, maybe?... and Derek standing just inside the doorway to the living room, a plastic CVS bag at his feet as he just gapes slightly at Stiles, looking a little pale.

... It's less than an ideal way to do the reveal, really. Whoops.

"Surprise?" Stiles tries weakly. There's no way he can come up with something clever to backtrack on this, especially not quickly. Maybe if he didn't feel so awful, and was functioning at something even remotely near normal capacity. But if he'd been at that point, he wouldn't have just slipped.

"You're _married_?" Scott rasps, looking half horrified, half betrayed. He's staring at Stiles's left ring finger, like if he looks at it hard enough, the illusion of a wedding band will disappear. "To wh—" His eyes flick from Stiles, to Derek. Even Stiles can hear the way Derek swallows hard in response. "Oh my God. Hale. Hale and hearty. You didn't. Holy shit, you did." He drops his head in his hands, and Derek chooses that moment to cross the living room and come stand behind Stiles on the couch, his hand resting protectively on Stiles's shoulder. His left hand, with his own ring in view.

"We did," Derek confirms. "Problem, McCall?" He seems to take notice of the look Melissa's giving them. "I mean, Scott?"

"I can't decide which I'm more confused about," Scott says after a moment, finally raising his head. "One, how my best friend could even get married without asking me to be his best man, could choose someone else instead. And two, I have no idea if that means Isaac or I won the bet."

"Dude, I didn't get anyone else to be my best man!" Stiles insists, kind of offended. "It's was just sort of a spur of the moment thing, and if there had been more time, I _totally_ would have—wait, what bet?"

"I bet you and Derek would start cautiously dating by the time you started college. Isaac bet you'd just get drunk one night and throw yourself at him."

This time, it's Stiles's turn to make a choking sound. "Seriously? Oh my God, my friends all suck." Stiles turns his head and makes a wounded face at Derek. "Did no one who saw something between us think we'd actually have a conversation and admit to our feelings and approach it like adults?"

"Is that what we did?" Derek asks, and Stiles swats at him, even though he's pretty sure Derek's joking. Derek catches his hand easily and laces their fingers together. "Either way, you both lose. No alcohol was involved, so Isaac's out. And... we got married, and then admitted feelings and decided to remain together, without dating first," Derek says, letting the last part out in a rush as he avoids looking at Melissa's face.

Stiles, however, chances a look. Her face is blank, and it's like motherly disappointment he didn't even know he might be subject to has just reared its ugly head at him. And then he sees the sort of sparkle in her eyes, just before she cracks and one corner of her mouth turns up, just a fraction. "You're happy?" she asks, looking from Stiles to Derek and back again. They both nod. "All right." She smirks, looking right at Stiles. "I'm not telling your father about this. But I kind of wish I could be here with popcorn when you do. Come on, Scott," she says, patting her son on the arm. "Let's go. Derek's got stuff from the pharmacy for Stiles. Let's give them some privacy."

"Thank you," Derek says as they both head for the door. Stiles is too dumbfounded to make his brain process exactly what just happened. 

Melissa smiles a little more widely, and it reminds Stiles entirely too much of every werewolf he knows. "Enjoy your time together. And remember that Stiles's dad gets back the day after tomorrow." And with that, she shuts the door behind them.

With as pale as Derek goes, and as abruptly as he sits on the couch next to Stiles, it almost looks like _he's_ the one who's sick, ready to keel over at any moment. "Don't worry, big guy," Stiles says, rubbing Derek's back. "We'll make it through this. My dad won't shoot you. Not in his own house."

"Not comforting," Derek tells him. But he lets Stiles pull him down onto the couch, and doesn't complain when Stiles snuggles as close to him as possible. After a while, Stiles can feel Derek laugh softly into his hair. "Only you," he says, nosing along Stiles's temple. "Only you would break the news of our elopement by accident."

Stiles makes a nonverbal noise of agreement. He may be a little worried about having to break the news to his dad, in general, but he can get through it. Eventually, his dad will understand. Especially once he sees them together.

Also, they've known each other for two years. Derek _really_ can't be surprised at the way it's turned out.


End file.
